Yep, I think I am.
I change quickly, grab the pile of papers and sit back on the bed, pressing my back to the cool, bare wall. I spread them out, digging around for tomorrow’s schedule, when I realize I have two of everything. Sara must have mixed her pack up with mine.
I look down at my fleecy pjs, tiny, fluffy sheep jumping lazily over fences decorating my legs.
I can’t go downstairs in these.
I start to sort through the papers, making two piles, one for me and one for Sara. I can’t believe the amount of stuff there is to fill in – medical forms, housing stuff. . . Guilt gnaws at me. I should really take them back down to Sara, so she can get started on them. I stare at the jolly little sheep and sigh.
Sometimes I really am too nice.
I press the button for the lift, scuffing my sliders along the tattered green carpet. The doors creak open and I get in.
The lift grinds to a halt on the second floor and a little bubble erupts in my stomach. What if Sara’s asleep already? Have I totally misjudged this? I tug at the hem of my button down top and slowly approach my could-have-been room. I hesitate for a second and knock.
No answer.
“Hey.” A male voice makes me jump. “I don’t think anyone’s in there.”
“Oh.” I turn, but the figure is disappearing round the corner. I hesitate, then I knock again, just in case. “Sara?”
Nothing.
Something makes me try the handle. To my surprise, the door opens easily in my hand.
“Sara?” I call, into the room. Silence.
She must be out then. I’ll just leave the pack on her desk and come straight out, no harm done.
It’s dark in Sara’s room, the curtains pulled tightly shut. I guess she really is scared of heights, even on the second floor.
The smell hits me suddenly, something raw and primal that turns my stomach. I inch further into the room on autopilot, even though my brain is screaming at me to get out. Something is not right. My eyes adjust to the darkness. In the gloom I can just about decipher the bed, and a huddled figure lying on it, one arm hanging limply over the edge.
The door is ajar and as I step forward, a slice of light from the corridor lands on the bed. Eyes wide and staring. Clumps of hair scattered across the pillow, ripped from the roots. A long, slim hand trailing towards the carpet, a beautiful diamond cluster ring on its forefinger.
A forefinger that is steadily dripping with blood, forming a dark pool on the floor.
“You all right, Irish?”
Derek plonks a steaming mug down on the table in front of me. I try to nod; his voice is kind but I’m completely numb.
“Best thing after a shock, tea with sugar.” I am silent, staring at the chipped rim, and Derek walks away, still rattling off the benefits of a sugary brew. I can’t get Sara’s face out of my head. I’ve seen dead bodies before – at home there was a wake every other month and they always have an open casket – but they always seemed unreal. Plastic.
Sara’s body was still warm when I found her.
“Excuse me, Miss. . .”
I refocus my eyes to see a young guard. Police officer, I remind myself.
“Hughes,” I supply, as he checks his notepad.
“Miss Hughes,” he repeats. “I’m PC Bowers. I need to ask you a few more questions, if you feel up to it?”
I nod. Not that there’s much I can tell him. I ran from the room screaming as soon as I saw Sara’s body and refused to return.
“You said earlier that you swapped rooms with the deceased, is that correct?”
“Yes.” My voice sounds rusty. “She said she didn’t like heights. And my room was on the second floor, so. . .” I choke on the words.
